


In Perfect Light

by mautadite



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Age Difference, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 06:24:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3280067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mautadite/pseuds/mautadite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s true then,” Petra says. “You’re leaving.”</p><p>(In the aftermath of the Broken Circle.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Perfect Light

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Femslash February, and as my way of gently sliding into this fandom. Hello! I'm a bit surprised that this ship hasn't been written before! Petra seemed pretty smitten to me, and queer Wynne is canon anyway, I'll literally come into your house and fight you on this.
> 
> Enjoy.

Petra waits for Wynne in her room. The Senior Mage Quarters are all over blood and filth, dark and despair, but a few rooms had managed to escape the horror that had captured that Circle. Wynne’s chamber is such a one, nestled in an out of the way nook. Her armoire still stands, as does her shelf of precisely organised books and tomes, her desk littered with mementos and runes and little trinkets, the neat little bed. Petra trails her fingers over the coverlets, and waits.

The templars are about, searching for any stray survivors or any abominations that might have escaped the Warden’s sweeps. There are few of the former, none of the latter; the elf woman and her companions had been very thorough. Unsurprising; they had had Wynne with them.

Petra allows herself a deep breath, fingers clutching tighter at the covers. Earlier, she’d had no chance to think on her brush with death. There had been the children to look after, Kinnon and Keili to soothe. Now, it comes back to her like a lightning strike; her staff just out of her grasp, the demon looming and laughing, the abomination that she might have become if it hadn’t been for Wynne.

Thinking of it makes her shiver, and also seems to summon her mentor. Wynne strides into the room purposefully, but on quiet feet, making nary a whisper at the door. Her step falters but for a moment when she spies Petra, sat upon the bed. She smiles gently, deepening her wrinkles and softening her eyes.

“Petra. Why am I not surprised to see you here, my dear?”

Petra looks at her; takes her first good look at her mentor since she and the Grey Warden had emerged from the upper floors with Irving in tow. Her robes have accrued an extra layer of grime, wisps of silver-grey locks have escaped from her ponytail, and there is still something of a deep weariness in the way she carries herself, in the way she moves, that makes Petra worry all over again that the duel with the demon had not left her unscathed. But for all that, she bears no signs of injury upon her person. Mahariel had been true to her word; she’d looked after Wynne as much as Wynne had done the same for her.

Wynne has moved over to her desk, and is washing her face and hands from a basin, one eye still on Petra. Petra smiles wanly when she finally answers.

“I suppose you just know me too well.”

Wynne’s next reply comes in soft, laughing tones. “I suppose I do, dear one.”

Chest tightening, Petra moves further up the bed, folding her knees to rest her chin in the valley there. She makes herself comfortable. She’s spent enough time here to know where the mattress dips, where it’s firm. Petra takes the softer side.

“It’s true then,” she says. “You’re leaving.”

Part of her thinks that Wynne will try to dissemble, soften the blow, make it a little easier to absorb. But she only nods, walking across to the armoire to exchange her dirty robes for fresh ones.

“Sometimes I think this tower is worse than a dockside tavern. I spoke to Irving barely ten minutes ago,” she says from behind the screen. She emerges chuckling, fastening the last buckles. Her stomach feels like a block of coal and her throat is seizing up, but Petra finds herself laughing too.

“Now it’s my turn to not be surprised,” she confesses quietly, hugging her knees. She feels like quite the child. “You saved me, you helped save the Circle, and now you’re off to save the world.”

Wynne folds a few spare robes, packs them neatly away. Her smile has turned wan, and she picks her way across the organised clutter of the room to sit next to Petra on the bed. Moving by muscle memory alone, Petra stretches out a hand that Wynne takes in both of her own. Wynne’s hands are beautiful. Every line, each wrinkle feels like the sharp kiss of a jewel.

“I don’t know about that,” she says, rubbing Petra’s hand. “You make it sound as if I could do it all on my own, when that’s perfectly untrue. None of us could. What _is_ true is that I think that I can help the Warden and her friends, and she is ready to accept that help.”

“She would be a fool not to,” Petra says, enjoying the feel of Wynne holding her hand. There’s been so much death, so much ugliness over the course of the past few days... something as simple as the weathered hand in her own is as good as a spirit balm. “And she has already proven that she is nothing of the sort.”

Wynne nods.

“I feel like this is something... something that I have to do. You understand that, don’t you dear?”

“I do. I know better than to argue.” Petra squeezes her hand, looking up into blue eyes that are sapphire strong and soul deep. At any other time, she would be thrilled for Wynne. She’s never gotten permission to leave the Tower for more than a few days herself. Now, with the Circle in tatters and a Blight threatening outside... Formidable as Wynne is, it gives Petra little comfort to think of her in such a world. But her mind is obviously made up, and Petra won’t try to steer her from her course. “I’m going to miss you though. More than you know.”

“Oh, Petra...”

Wynne presses a gentle peck to her forehead. It is a short-lived meeting of skin; Petra cups Wynne’s jaw and brings her down for a proper kiss. She feels herself being tugged closer, and sighs at the familiar touch of tongue. Stepping into the Fade for the first time, the pulsing strength of the arcane, a brisk breeze felt from one of the Tower’s meagre windows... touching Wynne is like all these things and none, indescribable and precious. Petra wraps her arms around her neck and kisses her as if it’s for the last time.

Her lips are wet when she pulls away, and she can feel her lover’s heart beating steadily beneath her breast. Wynne smiles gently.

“Oh, Petra,” she says again, kissing her briefly on the neck. Petra returns the gesture, kissing every line that forms the tiara on her brow.

“Who knows when is the next time I’ll be able to do this?” she says, sighing deeply. The scent of smoke and the grave still clings to Wynne like fog, but deep in the slope of her neck is the familiar smell of gardenias and clove.

Wynne doesn’t seek to give empty reassurances, which Petra appreciates. She pulls away, still holding Petra’s hand.

“I’ll miss you too, little petal.”

Now Petra really does feel like a child; Wynne hasn’t called her that in what feels like an age, and the nostalgia washes over her in a tight wave. It had taken a while for her powers to manifest, and thanks to her elder brother, even longer still for the Chantry to get wind of her. Petra had been a skinny, pig-tailed, knock-kneed girl of fifteen when she’d first stared up at Wynne with belligerent eyes, hating her for what she represented, for taking her away from her family in Amaranthine and everything she’d ever known. It had taken more than three years for her feelings to start turning around. And now, after a count of almost two decades...

Stroking the side of Wynne’s face, Petra studies her. She cannot rid herself of the feeling that something is different. Her mind provides her with an all too vivid image of Wynne lying on the floor in the wake of the demon, unconscious and so terribly still.

“Just promise me...” Petra bites her lip. “Are you sure you’re all right, Wynne? Really?”

Her hand cups Wynne’s jaw. Belatedly, she realises that the door to the room is ajar and there are templars and mages alike moving about in the hall. Any might observe their embrace. But few of the templars would blink at the sight of an indiscretion like this, not after all that the Circle has been through today. And it hardly matters. In a few hours, Wynne will be gone.

Wynne grasps the hand on her face, kisses it. If she’s aware of the open door, she ignores it.

“It would be too much to ask you not to worry, wouldn’t it?”

“Entirely too much,” Petra says sternly. Wynne’s answering chuckle comes with a soft echo.

“My dear girl... The Tower is going to need you, you know.” Petra frowns, but Wynne continues before she can interrupt. “This tragedy has left us bereft of many good mages, much of the old school. Brilliant young minds like yours will be sorely needed in the days to come. The Circle will need rebuilding, and Irving is going to want all the help he can get. The children will look to you as well. Don’t waste your time worrying after this old crone. I’ll be fine, and you’ll be fine.” Wynne kisses her hand again. “In a few months...”

Petra’s frown deepens, and this time, she does interject. “Don’t say that. You know I hate it when you talk like that. I’m not going to forget you.”

It’s an old quarrel. Wynne has never done her the injustice of assuming that Petra will abandon her for the first younger prospect that appears, but she has always made a point of letting Petra know that she is free to do so. Petra isn’t having any of it, and Wynne relents, stroking her hair.

“No... I don’t think you are going to.”

She almost sounds sadder for it, and it sends a curious pang through Petra. Before she can comment, Wynne kisses her cheek with what feels like finality.

“I’m going to have to be leaving soon, my dear.”

“I know. I just... I do wish I knew when you were coming back. It would give me something to look forward to.”

“Alas, that I cannot say. No one can.” Wynne gives her a little squeeze. “I would not want to give you false hope. This journey will be a perilous one; anything could happen.”

So calmly and matter-of-factly does she say it, Petra flinches.

“Wynne...”

“Shh, dear.” Another kiss for her temple and then a touch to her lips. “If it comes down to it, I am not afraid of dying,”

For all she likes to profess herself old, Wynne’s smile is like a fresh, immutable light that casts all of Petra’s doubt into shadow. She dips her brow to rest on Wynne’s collarbone. She doesn’t think that Wynne is afraid of anything, certainly not dying, as she had proven earlier today. And to be the person that she would perish for, well... it is awe-inspiring and humbling both.

Petra sighs. She can already feel Wynne’s absence in the far reaches of her heart.

“Irving has given us some time to collect ourselves, but I must report to him within the hour.” She loops her arms around Wynne’s neck. “Will you stay with me until then?”

In answer, Wynne reaches for her staff, and a small stone fist nudges the door all the way closed. When Petra tugs her down to lie prone on the bed, she goes willingly, and leans her face into the hand that Petra uses to caress her cheek. Her wrinkles press into Petra’s palm, and she feels each of them, a beautiful weight.

“For as long as I can, my dear,” Wynne says. “For as long as I can.”


End file.
